Page 91 of Freedom’s Inferno

The man’s gaze didn’t waver as I straightened. He was close enough that I could smell the smoke on his clothes, that faint sour tang of sweat beneath it.

The second my feet hit the ground, he moved. His hand clamped around my shoulder and spun me toward the car.

The force of it jolted through my chest.

He shoved me against the door hard enough for the metal to bite into my ribs. One hand swept down my side, rough and efficient, the other already reaching into my pocket. He pulled the knife free and held it up, squinting at it in the dim light before tossing it onto the hood with a clatter. The sound was small but final, like the snapping shut of a coffin lid.

The knife wouldn’t have done much anyway, but now even the illusion of control was gone.

He grabbed my arm again, tighter this time, and shoved me forward. The gravel shifted under our boots as we crossed toward the warehouse. The floodlights above flickered, buzzing. I could feel my pulse in my throat, in my hands, in every inch of me that wanted to fight but knew better.

As we neared the main entrance, another set of headlights flared behind us. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a black Range Rover pull up, its engine purring low and steady. My stomach turned over. I knew that car.

The big man pushed me through the door before I could get a look at who stepped out.

My boots scuffed against concrete as he steered me down a narrow corridor until we stepped into a wide open space that had once been a warehouse office.

The sight stopped me cold. I knew this place. The same corrugated walls, the same flickering fluorescent lights. The same metal desk in the middle of the room, scarred and stained with rings from coffee mugs and cigarettes. They’d dragged me here over a week ago, when Costa first decided I was worth his attention.

Now he stood behind the desk again, leaning forward with both palms pressed flat against the surface. His dark eyes lifted as we entered, cold and calculating.

The bearded man with the bald head was there too, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, his face impassive.

Lana wasn’t there.

The big man released me with a shove that sent me off balance.

Costa didn’t move. His gaze flicked to the doorway, then back to his man. “Watch the door, Mike,” he said, his voice low, but carrying easily through the space.

The heavyset man nodded once, his boots thudding as he stepped back out into the hall. The door shut behind him with a dull echo, leaving me alone with Costa and the bastard with the beard.

“Where is she?” The words came out low, rough, stripped of pretense.

Costa didn’t glance up right away. He straightened, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his mouth as if I’d proven something he already knew.

“Patience, Mr. Sterling,” he said. “You’ll see her soon enough.”

He gave a subtle nod toward the bearded man, who pushed himself off the wall and exited through the side door without a word. The metal door shut behind him with a heavy clang and my pulse spiked.

Costa turned his full attention to me. “About my money. Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.” The words tumbled out before I could think. “She doesn’t have it either. Richard‒”

Costa cut me off with a flick of his hand, his expression tightening in the faintest show of irritation, “The widow told a similar story, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told her.”

He took a step closer, his voice soft but edged with steel. “I don’t care.” He let the words settle between us before continuing. “I was generous with the time I gave you, Mr. Sterling. I listened to your excuses, tolerated your delays, but I’m done playing.”

Before I could speak again, a knock sounded at the door. Costa’s head turned, his irritation flashing across his face like a shadow.

“Enter,” he said.

The man he called Mike opened the door and stepped back to let another man inside.

The newcomer filled the doorway, tall and lean, all hard lines and graceful strength. He wore a dark suit that fit him too well to be off the rack, the crisp white of his shirt stark against his skin. Thick dark hair framed a face that might have been handsome if not for the exhaustion carved into it. He carried a navy colored folder under one arm, expression composed. Then his eyes found me, pale green, startling against the dim light, and every muscle in my body went rigid.

Elliott.

The air left my lungs like I’d taken a fist to the sternum.